


Rites of Passage

by averita



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin, Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: 5 Times, Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, F/M, Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-10-16
Updated: 2013-10-16
Packaged: 2017-12-29 14:46:22
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,713
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1006652
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/averita/pseuds/averita
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"Are you guys having <i>sex</i>?" A very serious story about Stark family suffering.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Rites of Passage

**Author's Note:**

> I feel like this was probably a kink meme prompt but I didn't save it. In any case, Stark family fluff (and a little bit of trauma).

“Are you guys having _sex_?”

Ned and Catelyn freeze, her arms still locked around him and his mouth under her jaw. They turn, together, to look at their young son, who’s standing in the doorway watching them with the same sort of grossed-out glee he exhibits when watching a particularly graphic special on the Discovery Channel. 

“Oh God,” Catelyn mumbles, burying her face in Ned’s shoulder for a moment before pushing him off of her and clutching the blankets close. “Robb, what have we told you about knocking?”

“Sorry,” Robb replies unconcernedly. “But were you? Theon says it’s really weird.”

Ned groans, groping around under the covers, and Cat hands him his boxers from where they’d ended up near her hip. He slips them on and gets out of bed, wrapping his robe tightly around him and handing Cat her own. 

“Robb,” he says, then stops, looking helplessly at Cat. She’s still a little out of breath, but shrugs into her robe and arranges herself so that she feels a little less exposed. “Robb, your mother and I -”

“Were having private time,” Cat says firmly, moving to sit on the edge of the bed. “What did you need, sweetheart?”

Robb shrugs. “The movie was boring. Can Jon come over?”

“We’ll see in a little while,” Catelyn tells him. “Go finish your movie, or you can go play outside if you want. We’ll be downstairs in a few minutes.” Her tone brokers no argument, and Robb obeys, looking vaguely annoyed but smart enough not to express it. 

Ned closes the door behind him, and collapses on the bed next to Cat with a sigh. “Why did we have kids again?” he asks mournfully.

“We had fun making them,” she reminds him, giggling as her nerves finally get the best of her. “God. You know you have to talk to him now, right?”

If the mood hadn’t already been well and truly ruined, Ned thinks sourly, that would have done it.  


***

As a little girl, Sansa would pretend to be a princess, and she hosted all manner of royal balls and tea parties. Her mother likes to tell people that this is how she learned her manners. Sansa’s not sure about that - common courtesy has always come naturally to her - but the fact remains that over the years she has more than made up for Robb and Arya’s lack of refinement with her politeness. She smiles at everyone, calls adults “sir” and “ma’am”, and would never dream of entering a room without knocking.

Right now, she’s really wishing the living room had a door.

It might have been okay - well, _better_ \- if they hadn’t realized she was there, but she hadn’t been able to choke back the instinctive, shocked squeak that escaped her. Her father is the one that turns to face her, and there’s something almost fascinating about how quickly the color leaves his face. Her mother, on the other hand, doesn’t seem to even register that they’re not alone until her father falls back and scrambles to his feet with a muffled curse. Dimly, Sansa finds herself thanking God that he, at least, is mostly dressed.

“Sansa,” Catelyn gasps, snatching the folded blanket off the back of the couch and throwing it over her lap. Her face is flushed, and Sansa tries not to notice that, the same way she tries not to notice her father discretely wiping his mouth with his hand. “Sansa, what are you doing home, why are you not at Margaery’s?”

“She got sick,” Sansa says numbly. Her face is red, too, she can feel the blood rushing in her ears. She’s really wishing that there was etiquette for this situation, but this is beyond even her. “Um, I’m just - sorry. I’m going upstairs. Sorry,” she says again, and flees.

Later - after an awkward conversation with her mother, but before her father is able to meet her eye - she’s able to admit to herself that it’s kind of sweet. She’s always looked to her parents as an example of an ideal marriage, and she supposes this is part of the package that she wants for herself one day.

But more than that, she wants a house with lots of doors.  


***

Arya waits until they’re halfway through dinner before bringing it up.

“Mom, are you feeling better?” 

Catelyn frowns, spearing a piece of asparagus with her fork. “Was I sick?”

Arya shrugs innocently. (Jon - he’s here, of course, Aunt Lyanna complains that he spends more time at their house than at his own - looks at her suspiciously, and she kicks him under the table.) “I dunno. I woke up last night and heard you. It sounded like you were hurt.” She bites back a grin, noting the fleeting, panicked look her parents exchange, and she’s pretty sure she doesn’t look remotely innocent anymore. “You kept calling Dad’s name. You know, like, moaning it.”

“Arya -” Jon interjects, and Robb groans loudly.

“Seriously?” he demands, looking from his blushing mother to stone-faced father and then back to Arya. “Come on, we’re _eating_.”

Arya looks back at him with wide eyes. “I was just worried about Mom!” she protests, not bothering to hide her amusement anymore. “I mean, she sounded like she was in a lot of pain.” At that, her mother groans as well and puts her fork down, but the corner of her mouth twitches.

“Arya Stark,” her father warns, using his most serious voice (though she notes that it’s slightly higher than usual), “this is not appropriate dinner conversation.” Next to him, Sansa nods emphatically, and Robb has already pushed his plate away, looking disgusted.

“What’s wrong with Mom?” Bran pipes up, and at that, Sansa dissolves into giggles, hiding her face in her hand. Catelyn’s shoulders are shaking as well, though she takes a long sip of water and manages to compose herself, shooting Arya a warning look that would be a lot more effective if she weren’t still bright red. Arya shrugs defiantly. After what she had to hear last night, this is the least they deserve.

“Thank God Theon isn’t here,” Jon mutters, and Arya swallows a bite of pork chop.  


***

Bran’s half asleep when he remembers he never called Meera.

Rickon has a doctor’s appointment tomorrow and with his dad out of town, Robb and Sansa at the high school, and Arya’s 6:30 AM soccer practice, he doesn’t have a ride to school. “Meera drops Jojen off,” he’d assured his mom at dinner. “She won’t mind taking me too. I’ll call her after dinner.” Only after dinner he had homework, and Arya had wanted to play a new video game, and then Rickon had gone and swallowed another lego, which got Robb into trouble because he was supposed to be watching him, and now it’s nearly 10:30 and he still hasn’t called her.

Sighing, he pulls himself out of bed and pads out into the hall, mentally adding this to his list of reasons he needs a cell phone. (Then again, maybe ‘late night phone calls’ isn’t the best reason to give his parents.) _Meera’s older, she’ll be awake_ , he thinks as he picks up the landline and puts it to his ear.

“ - your hair,” he hears his father say through the receiver, and he frowns. “Is it up or down?”

“Down,” his mother answers. Her voice sounds different - a little deeper, more playful. “I just got out of the shower.” His father’s breath is harsh in his ear. 

Bran thinks that he should probably say something, but just as this occurs to him, his father asks “Are you wet?” in a slightly strangled voice, and well, Bran may just be in seventh grade but he has an older brother, not to mention Jon and Theon. He’s pretty sure that his dad’s not just talking about water. 

“Very,” his mother breathes, and Bran nearly drops the phone in his haste to hang up. 

He knows well enough what goes on between his parents - he has four siblings, to start with, and he’s heard their horror stories - but he’s been lucky so far. Making a face, he thinks that it’s horribly unfair that he’s not safe even when his dad’s out of the _house_. 

Making his way back to his room, he climbs back into bed and firmly tries to rid his mind of such thoughts. He’ll just bike to school tomorrow.  


***

There are benefits to being the youngest, and Rickon grew up following all of the unofficial household rules: never go into Mom and Dad’s room unannounced. If they’re not expecting you home, make your presence known, loudly. Don’t use the landline when they’re not both home. He knew all of the rules, and he was grateful for them, especially once Robb and Arya started bringing “friends” home as well. While he could hardly be called naive, and certainly not innocent, he had avoided this particular trauma.

Three days after his thirteenth birthday, Sansa calls. “Hey, Rick,” she says cheerfully. “Mom’s meeting me for lunch but she forgot her wallet on her nightstand. Can you go get it and have Arya bring it to my place?”

“I thought Mom was home,” Rickon says, surprised, but agrees. 

Sansa’s always been good at making people forget she has an evil streak.

When he enters his parents’ bedroom, several things happen at once: Rickon yells, clapping a hand over his eyes; his mother falls off his father and yelps “Rickon!”; his father yanks the bedsheets almost over their heads; Shaggy starts barking somewhere downstairs; and Arya, Bran, Robb, and Jon (when had they gotten here?) stumble out of Arya’s room, laughing. 

“Congratulations, little brother,” Robb says seriously, clapping his shoulder. 

“You’re officially a Stark now!” comes Sansa’s voice from the phone in Bran’s hand.

“You didn’t think we’d let you skip the initiation process, did you?” asks Arya, cackling until Rickon comes to his senses and grabs her in a headlock. 

They stumble out into the hall, Robb closing the door behind them with a quick “Sorry!” to his parents over his shoulder. 

Ned and Cat look at each other, shocked, hearts still racing. “What just happened?” Cat asks blankly.

“Well,” Ned says thoughtfully, “they’re not going to be coming back anytime soon.” And he kisses her.


End file.
